Your Betrayal
by Darth Kieduss the Wise
Summary: Maura is now the boss of the Irish Mob.
1. Get rid of the tail

**I do not watch **_**Rizzoli & Isles**_** but I do miss Sasha Alexander as Kate Todd on **_**NCIS. **_**But when I found out Maura was the daughter of an Irish mob boss, I couldn't resist as an Irish American to write this. Enjoy. First chapter based on **_**The Departed **_**but the rest will be my own.**

A brunette woman rode in a car, riding shotgun, with three men. Mickey McDoyle was driving them down the highway. The two others were Sean O'Banion and Patrick Sullivan. Another car filled with other associates trailed right behind. She had taken over the Irish Mob after her father had been put away in prison. While they were passing a bus, the woman's phone rang.

"What?" she demanded.

_"Yeah, you got a tail,"_ a man answered. _"Two cars. Not very subtle. They're not gonna be subtle for long from now on. That's what I've been trying to tell you." _

"So get rid of them," the woman said, sounding as if the man was too dull to figure it out.

_"There's no need for you to go yourself, Maura."_

"Get rid of the fuckin' tail!" Maura Isles screamed. There was a pause, before the man on the other end sighed.

_"All right," _he said before hanging up.

"Fuckin' rats," she hissed. "It's wearing me thin."

"Ma'am, it's a nation of fuckin' rats," McDoyle told her as a matter of fact style.

BOSTON PD

James "Jimmy" Devlin, who had just talked to Maura came into a conference room where Korsak and his detectives, including Jane Rizzoli, where keeping in contact with the detectives tailing the three gangster cars.

"Stop, stop. Pull our guys off them. There's no need to surveil them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Korsak inquired.

"I got it from an undercover," Jimmy told him. "They know they're being followed. So let's just let the UC take them in."

"What undercover?" Jane asked.

"My guy. I planted him in there a week ago. And...he's saying the boss is a woman."

"A woman?" Jane asked again. "The Irish Mob has a woman as their boss? Isn't the Mob a chauvinist patriarchy or something?"

"I know, I'm just as surprised as you are."

"Who's the undercover?" Korsak asked.

"I...can't really divulge. But I'm running him."

"You're running him? I'm your boss. You give him to me."

"No, I can give you their destination," Devlin deflected.

"You know where they're going?" Jane asked, surprised at this man's achievement.

"Yes, _and_ what they're doing," Devlin said as he made for the door. "So I suggest you get rid of the tail, get Special Ops on stand by. We'll take these pricks _tonight!_"

"All right, let's go, now," Korsak said with a motion of his hand, following Devlin.

Rolling her eyes, Jane grabbed her radio. "All units fall back. All units fall back."

"Who is this woman?" Korsak fumed. "Paddy Doyle's in jail, so who did he pick to take his place?"

"Sir, you got a better chance getting an answer from my dog," Devlin responded.

"She must be one hell of a woman to be their boss," Jane said.

HIGHWAY

The two cop cars took an exit off the highway. Maura let out a sigh.

"Back in my ol' man's days," Maura said, "Your people did what you said. No questions except who, what, where, when and how. Never why. And they didn't mess it up."

"I know what you mean. I served your father well."

"Mickey, how come you didn't take over? Don't you wanna be the boss?"

Mickey shrugged. "Eh, I'm not really the boss type. I guess my time in Desert Storm made me realize that I'm best at taking orders. I don't know."

Maura nodded with a stiff upper lip. "Understandable."

Ten minutes later, the three Mob cars pulled off the highway and approached an old abandoned warehouse. They identified the 18 wheeler that they were supposed to inspect. They parked inside the warehouse and got out. Approaching the wheeler, McDoyle opened the doors. Inside where two dozen bags of pure cocaine. McDoyle pulled out his knife and cut a tiny hole in one of the bags. Maura took a pinch of the powder and tasted it before spitting it back out. It was the real stuff.

"Load it up," she told them. Everyone began loading the dope into the trunks of the cars. O'Banion approached Maura.

"Ma'am, how do you know you don't have a tail, huh?"

Maura looked at O'Banion with a look that asked if he was serious.

"Were you not in the damn car? What, did you have an out of body experience?"

"No, but what if they took one off and they put another one on?"

Maura rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Load!"

What they didn't know was that outside the warehouse, the Boston Police Special Operations Unit were waiting for them. Kneeling behind their cars, the Special Ops people aimed their M4A1 carbines, shotguns and pistols at the entrance, patiently waiting. Inside the hanger, everyone was finished loading and getting in the cars.

"Come on! What are y'all waitin' for?!" Maura called from the first car. "Move out!"

The three cars came to life and moved forward. Maura was smiling until half a dozen cop cars blocked their path, replacing the darkness of the warehouse with red, white and blue flashing lights. The car doors opened and dozens of cops swarmed out.

"Ah, shit!" Maura swore. She pulled out a TEC 9 as McDoyle shifted into reverse. Blocked off, the occupants of the other two cars immediately bailed out of their cars and pulled out their guns. The sound of the police sirens were replaced with the tremendous booms of gunfire.

"Son of a bitch!" O'Banion yelled as he fired his revolver, backing up with the rest of the crew. One of them pulled out a shotgun while another pulled out a MAC-10. The Boston Special Ops returned fire.

"Mother fuckers!" the man with the MAC-10 yelled before being shot down. Having spent his shots, O'Banion grabbed the MAC-10 and fired off some automatic rounds. The man with the shotgun fell after taking one between the eyes. His last shot fired into the roof. O'Banion popped a Special Op man before taking one in the shoulder.

The car Maura was in clipped the other two gangster cars. It rattled them, but McDoyle kept on driving back. Then a bullet hit McDoyle square in the clavicle. He gasped for breath, one hand grabbing at his chest.

"They fucking shot me, Maura!" he croaked. The car crashed into support beam that held up the warehouse. The axle was snapped. The car wasn't going anywhere. Maura bailed out, looking back at McDoyle.

"Come on, Mickey!"

"Go on! Get out of here!" he yelled, coughing up blood. He pulled out his sub-nosed revolver out of view of his boss. Maura hesitated to leave her best enforcer. The cops were coming and there were kilos of Colombian bam-bam in the cars...but she couldn't leave him to die or get arrested.

"GO!" McDoyle yelled. Maura took one last look before making a run for it. Once she was out of sight, he placed the barrel of his gun under his chin. "Fuck it."

Maura was running and pulling out her phone when she heard the gunshot. She cringed with sadness and crossed herself as she kept moving. _Goodbye, Mickey. You were one of the good ones._

Finding cover far away from the shooting, she opened up her phone. She dialed one number on her speed-dial. Just as she pressed the call button, a voice echoed in her ears.

"Hands up!" a dark haired woman screamed. "Hands where I can see them. Whoever you are, you're under arrest!"

Maura held up her hands, phone in her left and the TEC 9 in the right.

"Drop the phone and the gun!"

Maura did as told. Locking the hammer back on her gun, the cop said, "Slowly turn."

Inch by inch, Maura moved her face to turn herself around to face the detective.

"Maura?" Janet Rizzoli gasped in horror, just as her phone started to ring.

"Hello, Jane."

**Commerical. Review.**


	2. Ár Cara

A YEAR AGO  
>HELL'S KITCHEN, NEW YORK CITY<p>

The Irish Mob wasn't like the Italian Mafia, but Paddy Doyle had based some of their works on the Italians. Paddy had said that since the start of Irish mob in the 1860s, the initiation of members was simply do a crime or whack a guy and that was it. No oath of loyalty and secrecy like the Italians did. Just a speech about what they'd do to rats.

Doyle admired the Italians so he decided to do the things they did, but Gaelic-style. But Doyle was a little more brutal than the Mafia, to the point where he smashed a member's arm cast to check for wires. Despite this, he wasn't like the Russian _Mafiya_ or the Latin _narco trafficante_. He wouldn't set off a car bomb in the middle of DC just to kill one person. Doyle believed in discipline and order, despite his murderous occupation.

Maura was summoned to Manhattan, New York. A few members had been killed or imprisoned, so it was time to initiate new members. The Irish mob bosses of Chicago, New York, Washington DC, Philadelphia, Boston (being Doyle), and even Atlanta.

After one other man, Patrick Donaghy, was initiated, it was Maura's turn.

"Gentlemen, this is Maura Isles, my daughter, a descendant of Dublin," Doyle told his fellow bosses. "Maura, know that this family of ours is a secret, along with the other families in this country and the ol' country. You are entering the society of the chosen. A society which does not exist to the rest of the world. Our family means more to you from now on than your own God, country or family, even me, your own father. If I ask you to kill your own brother, you must do it. Maura, if I told you your brother was wrong, he's a rat, he's gonna do one of us harm, you'd have to kill him. Would you do that for me, Maura?"

"Yes."

"Any one of us here for that?"

"Yes."

"So you know the severity of our family?"

"Yes."

"Do you want it badly and desperately? Your mother's dying in bed, and you have to leave her because we called you, it's an emergency. You have to leave. Would you do that, Maura?"

"Yes."

"Alright then. Show me, which finger would pull the trigger?"

Maura held out her right finger. Fitz, one of Doyle's enforcers, pulled out a small knife and pricked her finger and dripped some blood drops on a picture of Saint Patrick, who brought Christianity to Ireland and according to legend, cast out all the damn snakes. Fitz held the picture over a candle until the flames caught on a corner, and advanced. Fitz put the photo in Maura's hands. The heat warmed up her hands but did not burn her.

"Repeat after me, Maura. Translate in English, so that we can all see that you are a true Irishwoman, that you know our language," Paddy said. "'_Má bhí mé a betray an rún ar ár slí beatha_...'"

"'If I were to betray the secret of our way of life...'" Maura recited, as the picture of the Saint of Ireland burned in her hands.

"'_Bealtaine m'anam sruthán i ifreann, díreach mar seo naomh_...'"

"'May my soul burn in hell, just like this saint...'"

"_Ár cara_," Paddy finalized, coming over to embrace his daughter. "Gentlemen, I give you our new friend, Maura Isles."

Everyone but Paddy sat down at a rectangular table.

"I am very pleased to have those two talented and honest men and woman join us," Paddy started. "And I'm happy this has happened in the presence of our esteemed guests, especially Boss Jim O'Sullivan."

Paddy nodded at O'Sullivan, born in County Cork in 1922. He was old and balding with gray hair and old fashioned glasses but a nice expensive suit. His old man was part of the Easter Rising of 1916.

"You'll receive payments for your services from Fitzy. Would you like to add anything, Mr. O'Sullivan?"

O'Sullivan stood, patting down his suit. His Irish accent was thick and impossible to miss. "Whatever you do, lads, lass, stay away from drugs. No drugs! That's our policy. You can make plenty of money, but it's a filthy non-respectable business. No assassination of anyone, whether it be rats, rivals, cops or anybody, shall be done without this Council's approval."

With that, he sat back down, with Paddy concluding the meeting. "All right, lady and gentlemen. Council adjourned. We'll meet here again a year from tomorrow."

Where Maura grew up, the only people who mattered were the ones who had the balls to take what they wanted. And after years of doing the Boston PD's dirty work, Maura Isles was willing to risk anything to finally be somebody.

THREE DAYS LATER  
>BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS<p>

Eddie Lousanio, a _soldato_, or soldier, of the Patriarca crime family, cruised the service street way in his new 2012 Ford Focus. He never noticed the dark sedan following him.

A skinny Detective was driving. He was a big guy in personality but small in the waistband. He liked to tell people he was the most decorated officer in South Boston. Sitting next to him was his partner, the heavy set guy. He was a quiet humble man.

As Lousanio approached a highway, the fat cop slapped the red flasher on the dashboard and turned it on. Eddie noticed it right away. Chances were he figured it was just another one of those pain-in-the-ass bullshit harassment by cops. Some cops busting his balls. But it was the police, so he had to stop. Silently cursing, he pulled over on the side of the serve road.

Eddie looked into the rear view mirror, seeing both doors of the unmarked police car open and two guys got out and walked towards his Ford. Retrieving his license and registration, he rolled down the window. The two cops came to the driver's side window, the skinny cop leaning against the door. The latter kept his hand in his coat pocket, so Eddie never saw his gun.

"How are you, Eddie?" the skinny cop asked in his big cop voice.

"Hey, whatever it is," Eddie said as he handed the skinny cop his papers. "I didn't do nothing."

"Hmm, double negative," the fat cop chuckled. "That's means you weren't doing nothing. Means you were doin' something. Maybe something you don't want us to know about?"

"You know what I mean."

"And you know what I mean."

The three laughed.

"What's that on the floor?" the skinny cop asked, pointing toward something on the passenger-side floor.

It was nothing. Just his passport. Eddie leaned over to pick it up. As he turned his head the fat cop pulled out his gun, extended his arm, and aimed directly at the back of his skull. And pulled the trigger. Three shots rang out. Very few cars were on the street way so the shots were not heard. The skinny cop also pulled out his gun and fired into Eddie's body, four times.

Eddie Lousanio bled out from nine bullet wounds all over the new leather seats, slumped over on the wheel.

The two detectives put their guns back in their pockets and the two South Boston police detectives walked casually back to the car, the skinny cop pulling out his cell phone.

_"Isles."_

"It's done, Ms. Isles," the skinny cop said.

Just another night in the life of two dirty cops on the payroll of the Irish Mob.

NEXT MORNING

Coming to work, Jane was still wondering why Maura had quit her job. She had a PhD and worked in the Boston Police Department. Why would you quit a job like that? Maura didn't even give a understandable reason, just "have to take care of some things from the past". Jane didn't pry but she was still worried. God only knew where her best friend was.

Dr. T. Pike, Maura's replacement, approached Jane with a folder. "Morning, Ms. Rizzoli."

"Morning, T," Jane greeted, taking the folder. "What do we got?"

"Gun shot victim," T. Pike said as they went to autopsy. Pike waited till they approached the body, covered with a white sheet. "I present to you..."

He removed the sheet.

"Eddie Lousanio?" Jane exclaimed in astonishment. "Of the Patriarca family?"

"The one and the same."

"Cause of death?"

"Nine gunshot wounds. Five to the head, three to the shoulder, one to the upper left back."

"Caliber?"

".40 Smith & Wessen. I'm guessing you're average Glock, maybe Glock 22."

"Looks like he was executed," Jane said while observing the body.

"He was found slumped over on the steering wheel," Pike replied.

"You think it was it a hit?" Jane asked.

"Sorry, Ms. Rizzoli. That's your job," Pike responded. "However, my analysis indicates two shooters."

"How so?"

"Luciano received his shots to the head from the back," Pike explained, then pointed to the wounds on the chest. "While the shoulder wounds came from the front. Now, unless the killer, or hitman whatever, decided to take the time to shoot Luciano in the back of the head, take a few steps forward and shot him in the front, you got two shooters."

"I don't know but something in my gut tells me this isn't going to be a usual case...I have a bad feeling about this."

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